


Stab Wound

by StellanFan (yankeetooter)



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:08:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yankeetooter/pseuds/StellanFan
Summary: Boris relives an old war wound.





	Stab Wound

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober prompt...

It was Thursday, April 28, 1988, when Boris Shcherbina got the news of Valery's death and the cause thereof. He had just entered his office at about 8:45 a.m. when he received the phone call.

Boris crashed to the floor, suddenly unable to catch his breath. A pain shot through his chest and settled in his left side.

_No, Valera, please, it can't be true!_

When Boris came to, he was surrounded by medics, the chief medic directing him to lie still and take deep breaths.

_You fool! I can't breathe! That's the problem!_

Every time he tried to take even a shallow breath, a sharp pain rippled through him. Lack of sufficient oxygen was making the room spin and his vision was dimming. Then one of the men slapped an oxygen mask on his face and the darkness retreated a bit, but the pain stayed put. Then he was being given an injection and blessed unconsciousness claimed him.

_________________

Boris woke up in a hospital bed, a nurse nearby. "What happened?" he croaked, prompting her approach.

"We're not sure, Deputy Chairman. Tests are negative for any heart trauma."

_Want to wager on that?_

"Did you by any chance suffer some sort of shock?"

Boris clamped his eyes shut, trying to deny the memories rushing at him while also trying to hide the tears threatening to flow down his face. Swallowing, he managed, "Yes, the death of a friend," in a raspy voice.

"Well, severe shock can cause physical pain. We'll continue to run tests, but so far we haven't found any physical cause for your pain."

Boris nodded, all too aware of the ongoing pain in his side.

_________________

It was January 1940. Boris had stumbled across the enemy scout, ensuing in a scuffle for weapons. Boris had dispatched the scout, but not before a knife punctured his ribs. 

Instant pain! Breathing became an agony, and moving out of the question. If not for another man from his unit finding him quickly, Boris would have perished in the snow. 

The trip back to camp was an agony. Every little jolt of the stretcher caused a sharp intake of breath, which brought another wave of pain.

They ended up having to operate. The knife had pierced his left lung, which was slowly filling up with fluid. The surgery took four hours, and Boris was consigned to his bed for eight weeks afterwards, its own special type of torment for a man used to always being on the go.

__________________

1988...

Boris woke up briefly when the doctor was examining him. 

"Ah, Deputy Chairman, you're awake! Good! We need to do another series of x-rays."

Boris grimaced at the thought of being moved again, but maybe they could find the cause of his difficulty breathing this time. However, after another set of x-rays, no trauma was revealed. His ribs weren't broken and his lungs were intact. He didn't even have any bruising.

The doctor explained all this to a frustrated Boris. "We will keep you of course until the pain subsides, but I can find no clinical reason for your pain, unless it is caused by your psychological trauma."

_My what? Is he saying I'm crazy? Sure, I'm hurting from Valery's death, but who wouldn't mourn their friend?_

Looking around the room, Boris threw the first thing to hand at the doctor - his bedpan. The doctor retreated to the doorway, instructing the nurse to administer another sedative. Boris didn't fight her, wanting only to forget for a while 

_________________

1940...

Two weeks into his proscribed bedrest, Boris got a roommate, a ginger haired, gangling fellow who was rather shy, especially when the nurse gave him his sponge bath.

His name was Sasha, and he had scars extending from his wrists up his forearms. He caught Boris staring at his arms one day and perched on the side of Boris' bed.

"What happened?" Boris croaked.

Sasha looked down, his face flushing. "My best friend died, k-killed himself," he stammered. "I couldn't bear the pain of his dying. I...I decided to end it all, but, well, my commanding officer found me and..." Sasha shrugged. "Now they watch me like a hawk. I can't even take a piss by myself."

Boris painfully pulled himself up to a sitting position. "Do you really think your friend would have wanted you to end your life?" he asked in a poor imitation of his usual bark. "Is that really what he would have wished for you?"

The young man broke down. "But...it h-hurts so much!"

Boris softened uncharacteristically. "I'm sure it does. But you have to keep fighting. You'll do it because it must be done! Fight! If only for him!"

The young man sobbed, but nodded at Boris' statement. "I...I know. I'll try."

Boris never heard from the young man again, but he hoped he had been able to overcome his pain.

__________________

1988...

Boris woke from a deep slumber, dried tears on his face. He instinctively took a deep breath in response to the intense memory he had relived in his dream. It wasn't until minutes later that he realized there had been no pain.

\-------------

Three days later, Boris was released from the hospital. No more pain was evident when breathing and Boris suspected it was gone for good.

Boris would live for two more years, going on to head the cleanup efforts in Spitak, Armenia after a horrific earthquake occurred that killed tens of thousands of people.

The pain of losing Valery never left him. But everything he did from April 27, 1988 on, was for his love. Every effort, every fight...it was all for Valery.


End file.
